


Changing The View

by mardia



Series: immortality [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I got used to deflecting, waving it off with a "Good genes, I suppose," when someone marveled at how I still looked like I’d just left uni, even when I was in fact a decade older than that.</i>
</p><p>  <i>But I kept getting older, and the comments kept coming.</i></p><p>Peter's getting older, not that you can see it in his face. Futurefic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing The View

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to jamjarring for the Britpicking, any remaining mistakes are my own.

I'd been getting comments on my face on and off since I hit my mid-thirties, mostly from people I didn't know well, or people I hadn't seen in a while, but it had only been in the last year or two that they really started to pick up. 

It wasn't anything I paid too much attention to--flattering at times, a nuisance at others, particularly when I was in a room full of officers more senior than myself and I needed to be taken seriously. And I'd got used to deflecting, waving it off with a "Good genes, I suppose," when someone marveled at how I still looked like I’d just left uni, even when I was in fact a decade older than that.

But I kept getting older, and the comments kept coming. They kept getting more emphatic, with more and more people doing a double-take when they heard that I was a DI rather than a lowly PC. And wasn't _that_ lowering, going out with one of the Folly's apprentices on a case and having people think we were the same age, or God forbid, that I was younger.

It was getting to the point where I suggested to Bev one night, half-joking, that I ought to grow a beard or something--age me up. Bev was enthusiastic about it--she'd been a fan of me growing facial hair since our honeymoon, when I'd humored her request and left my shaving kit untouched. I'd always dismissed it; I felt vaguely silly with the stubble on my face, and it itched something terrible besides. But Christ, one more incredulous, "wait, how old _are_ you?" and I'd have to seriously give it a go.

None of the apprentices we had made much hay of it though, too respectful--or because they simply didn't want to be followed around by rainclouds all day, whichever. Except for Abigail, of course, but that was to be expected.

Still--all that attention, all that evidence that something was going on, and I genuinely didn't think there was anything in it.

Which only goes to show how far denial will get you.

*

It was at dinner one night when the penny finally dropped. DI Dominic Croft and his husband were visiting London from the gleaming metropolis of Herefordshire, and we'd met up for dinner at a restaurant off of Villiers Street like the old friends we were, to reminisce about bloodthirsty unicorns and changelings and the kind of adventures you can reminisce about fondly once they're safely in the past.

Victor was the first to comment, blinking in shock as I got up from the table, "Jesus, Peter, have you aged at all?" as I went in for a handshake.

"Haven't got the time," I quipped, thinking--hoping--that would be the end of it.

Except that Victor was frowning a little, still studying my face. From this close, I could look at him too--study the crow's feet at his eyes, the grey hair at the temples. Victor was still a good-looking man, don't get me wrong, but it was there, all the subtle markers of age, of time passing.

None of which, it must be said, I had.

"It's uncanny," he said, and Dominic, bless him, came in then.

"Well it's a good thing uncanny is in Peter's line of work," he said, and went in for a hug. "How are you, Peter?"

"Good, I'm good," I said, and yet I wasn't able to shake off the faint unease. "Bev sends her regards, she meant to come too but something came up last minute."

I didn't have to elaborate, Dominic snapped his fingers and asked, "That whale that swam too far up the Thames and got trapped? We heard about it on the radio as we drove down, Jesus." 

I nodded as we all took our seats. "It's her lookout, and she took Abigail along." Without too much prompting from me either--there were times when Beverley was even more committed to the idea of community policing than I was.

“Her lookout is dealing with marine animals that have got lost in the Thames?” Victor asked, but then our waitress stopped by and that was the end of any magic-related talk, at least until she’d left with our orders.

“Beverley’s lookout extends as far as her mother tells her it does,” I say with a shrug. “That’s how it goes. She was hoping to see you before you left town; we’ll have to have you over.”

Victor had a curious expression on his face, and he asked next, abrupt, “So...does she also look as young as you, then?”

I tensed, but covered it up by shrugging. “She’s a river goddess. They age as much as they want to age, I’ve found.” That was stretching it, at least from what I knew, but I wasn’t keen to go into details. Not that I even had many details to give, neither Beverley nor her sisters--my in-laws--were very forthcoming on how all that worked.

“Nice trick if you can get it,” Dominic said, and immediately changed the subject by talking about how they were planning to go and see West Brom play Chelsea in the FA Cup final, and how Victor, the traitor, was planning to root for the Blues.

“Have you forgotten I’m originally from here?” Victor asked, diverted. I settled back and watched the show, grinning. Since marrying Bev, I’d become a supporter of Fulham and Fulham Ladies out of sheer self-defense, so I was on Dominic’s side, but in a mostly academic sort of way.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dominic said, firm. “You’ve got the farm, you married me, you should be supporting West Brom.”

They settled into their squabble, which rounded out into general football talk that lasted through the appetizers and until Victor got up from his chair, saying, “I’m off to the bathroom, and when I’m back, I will explain to you both how deeply incorrect you are. With bullet points if need be.”

I chuckled as he left, but that faded as Dominic said, lowering his voice, “Sorry about Victor earlier--it’s a bit of a shock, but I’ll explain to him.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Explain about what?”

“Your face, you know, the whole...thing.” Dominic waved a hand at me vaguely, which helped not at all, and then he continued, “It’s how your sort operate, I’ve heard it all before.”

By that point, both of my eyebrows were in danger of flying off my forehead, they were raised so high. “Dominic,” I said, “--if this is you about to start going on about how ‘black don’t crack’ and all that, then--”

“What?” Dominic looked baffled. “I’m talking about you being _magical_ , Peter, not that.”

“Oh,” I said.

Dominic was starting to look a little alarmed, reacting to whatever expression was on my face just then. “I mean...that is what’s going on, right? Your boss, I’ve heard rumors that he doesn’t really age.”

With all the attention the Folly got these days, it wasn’t a surprise that piece of information was spreading. I’m sure some people were speculating as to whether Nightingale was ever going to collect his pension, and God knew what they’d say if he actually did. Putting that aside, I said, as steadily as I could, “That’s right, Nightingale is...well, he’s different. But I’m not, I’m just normal. For a wizard anyhow.”

That had Dominic staring at me like I’d just sprouted wings. “Peter,” he said, in a tone which I’m sure he meant to be level but ended up just sounding like he thought I’d gone mad and didn’t want to spook me, “Peter, have you even looked in a mirror at any point in the last fifteen years?”

And there it was, that unease I’d felt earlier, except magnified by a factor of ten. At least. 

“Mate,” Dominic said, leaning in over the counter--and I could see it in him, how his face had gotten fuller, his hair had receded a little, the lines etched around his mouth. His age showed, and if Dominic was correct, mine _wasn’t_. Not at all. “Either you’re the luckiest bloke I know, or you’re a damned Highlander.”

I meant to deny it, to push it off, but what came out of my mouth instead was a soft, “Oh, fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Dominic said. “Might want to look into that.”

*

Beverley was already home by the time I returned from the restaurant, sitting on the couch, legs tucked up underneath her as she watched a cooking show. Beverley’s always liked those sort of things, and she’s sucked me in as well. Then again, I’ve got her to sit through all of the Lord of the Rings movies, the extended editions no less, so fair play. 

“Hey,” she said by way of greeting. “How was dinner?”

“It was good,” I said, distractedly going over to the couch and giving her a kiss. “They want to have brunch with us before they head back Sunday.”

“Sounds good, and what’s wrong?” Beverley asked.

“Nothing, just--do you remember where the photo albums are? The old ones?” Like everyone else not under the age of fifty, we’ve gone digital, everything uploaded, but I still liked to keep the old, physical albums around. As Nightingale was fond of saying, books and photos couldn’t be hacked or corrupted. Not that that argument was stopping any of our apprentices from arguing to have the Folly’s libraries properly digitized at last. 

“They’re in that cabinet in the office,” Beverley said promptly. “Peter, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said, and it could be nothing, it really could. There was no reason for my heart to be speeding up as I went to the office, took the albums off the cabinet shelf and started digging through them, setting aside the ones that were just of my parents, of me as a gap-toothed kid, until I found the one I was looking for. The photos were sparser here, but there it was--a photograph of me at Hendon at my graduation, my parents on either side of me. 

I didn’t look at the other photographs, the ones of me with Lesley, the other officers we’d graduated with. Instead, I carefully peeled that photograph loose from the plastic and took it with me to the downstairs bath, where I followed Dominic’s advice and looked at myself in the mirror.

It wasn’t easy, truth be told. I didn’t feel anything like the man in that photograph, couldn’t imagine carrying myself like that again, so insecure and so carefree at the same time. But if I ignored everything else, ignored my dad standing next to me, how dated the photograph seemed now--if I just looked at my face there in the photo, and compared it to the one I saw reflected in the mirror...

There weren’t any lines on my face. No grey in my hair. My face was as smooth and youthful as if I’d just graduated from Hendon, as if I’d just entered the doors of the Folly yesterday instead of nearly two decades ago. 

“Fucking hell,” I said, heartfelt, and Beverley came to stand behind me in the doorway, her arms folded and her reflected face concerned in the mirror. “Peter, what is going on,” she repeated once more, and I knew I wasn’t going to get away with not answering this time.

“I don’t,” I started, and then stopped, because it sounded fucking ridiculous. I didn’t feel any different, I never had. Whatever happened, it must have been so subtle as to escape detection. I turned to face her as I said, “I don’t think I’m aging, Bev.”

Beverley’s face shifted, and I _knew_ that look. Fifteen years ago, when we were not-quite dating, I might not have been able to spot it, diagnose it for what it really was, but I could now. Eight years of marriage will do that. 

“What do you know,” I said, slowly, standing a little straighter without quite meaning to, “--that you aren’t telling me?”

Beverley took a careful breath. “I know that you’re right. You’re not aging, Peter. You haven’t been aging since Skygarden fell.”

*

“Skygarden,” I said, blank. We were sitting in our tiny kitchen together, a bottle of Red Stripe sitting in front of me. Beverley had bypassed the tea for something stronger, which I could only be grateful for. “This has been going on since Skygarden.”

“Best as I can work out, yeah,” Beverley confirmed. 

“And you’ve known this was happening since Skygarden,” I said next. 

“No,” Beverley says, her voice a little sharper now. “I didn’t know anything for sure, and certainly not back then.”

“But you knew something,” I probed. Beverley’s mouth pursed, which was as good as a yes. “And you were going to say something when, exactly? Once I’d reached my first century?”

Beverley tilted her head, annoyed. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I demanded. We didn’t fight often, me and Beverley, but when we did, the fights tended to be pretty spectacular. At least Beverley had gotten better at not flooding things now. “We’ve fucking talked about this, Bev, you don’t get to keep these kinds of secrets from me and pretend it’s not my business--”

“I wasn’t keeping secrets--”

“It’s my body,” I say over her, louder now. “My _life_ \--”

“Not just your life, or have you forgotten that bit?” Beverley snapped back, waving her left hand at me, the diamonds on her engagement ring flashing in the light. 

“No, have you?” I retorted, and later I’d regret that, because out of anyone, I knew the compromises Beverley had made in marrying me, none of which were natural to her and all of which she’d done for my sake. 

Beverley let out an angry hiss and held up her hands. “All right, time out, okay? Just--Jesus, Peter.” I fell silent, breathing hard through my nose, and the two of us just stared at each other for a moment.

Beverley spoke first. “I didn’t know for absolute sure, okay? Not--it never worked like that. I never woke up one day, looked over at you and went, ‘Right, so he’s immortal now, good show’. It wasn’t like that.”

I exhaled. “So what was it like, then?”

Beverley rolled her shoulders, a sign of how uneasy she was. “Do you remember when you proposed to me, and we finally started having to properly deal with all that politics and bullshit?”

Did I fucking ever. For most of our relationship, the various powers in our life had taken a holding pattern of wait-and-see, assuming that since neither one of us had put a ring on it, they were free to pretend like our relationship was just a temporary blip. After all, wizards from the Folly just didn’t marry river goddesses, it wasn’t fucking _done_.

But then Beverley and I had started talking about marriage, in a remarkably casual way, like, “Oh, when we’re married, I’d like a kitchen like that.” And somehow, we’d just known. That was it. And then I’d worked up the nerve and bought the ring, and Beverley had put it on and worn it while she’d gone to her mother and her sisters and broken the news that yes, _this_ river goddess was going to marry a wizard from the Folly, and they could fucking well deal with it. 

And they all had dealt with it. Eventually.

“Like I’d forget,” I said.

Beverley took a breath. “Do you remember when I asked you if you’d be willing to come into the river with me?”

That was burned into my brain--not just the question, but the immense fallout that came from it. Church ceremonies and marriage licenses aside, this was how you really married a river spirit, you took a dip with them in their local river and emerged as a part of them, a part of the demi-monde. Except that as a police officer and a wizard, I _couldn’t_ do that, not that way at least.

Lady Ty had been the one to lay it out for us, blunt and brutal. If I was going to enter the river with Beverley, I couldn’t also hold to the oaths I’d sworn to the Folly. And even if I had wanted to break my oaths, Nightingale would’ve never released me from them. He couldn’t have done it; Abigail wasn’t anywhere close to fully trained yet, and we hadn’t taken on any other apprentices at the time. I was the only other wizard the Met had, besides him, and my oaths to him and to the Folly and to the city of London took precedence over one wedding. Even if it was my wedding.

Nightingale had at least been apologetic, truly sympathetic when he’d broken the news to Bev. Lady Ty had been neither, and her attitude was a big part of why it took nearly a year before Beverley started speaking to her sister again.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice softer now as I recalled it. “I remember that.”

It had been the first time I’d seen Beverley crying, truly crying, out of sheer rage and frustration and heartbreak. I hadn’t understood all of it, but I knew what it meant for her--that for all the ceremonies and marriage licenses, I wouldn’t be hers, properly her husband, in a way that was truly meaningful to her. Never mind the fact that I’d get older, that I’d age and possibly die decades before she would.

She’d married me anyway, in spite of all that--in the face of all that. 

“Ty said that bit about you not going in with me, not unless you broke your oaths and I just--I knew how it’d be, even before Thomas said a word, I knew you’d never do it,” Beverley said in a rush, and when I opened my mouth she cut me off, saying, “I know, it’s all right, I knew who you were when I married you. That’s not the point. The point was that I was upset and scared and so...so I went to my mum and asked if there was a way around it.”

I could feel my eyebrows going up, because Beverley had never told me about this. “And?”

“She said there wasn’t, obviously. Before I could really lose it, she told me that it didn’t matter anyway, that you were--that you’d be all right, even if you never went into the river with me at all.”

“Your mother said that?” At Beverley’s nod, I asked next, “And that was all she said?”

“She didn’t hand me a manual, Peter,” Beverley said. “But when she said it, I believed her. I didn’t know what it meant though, not really. I thought that maybe you’d turn out like Nightingale, get older and then start getting younger again. Or maybe she just meant that you’d live long enough to retire from the Folly and come into the river with me, like we’d planned. Like you promised you would.”

Beverley swallowed, and looked down at her hands briefly. “And then...you just stayed the same. You never got older, you never changed. I’ve never had to worry about blood pressure or diabetes with you or any of that. And I was wracking my brains, trying to figure out where it came from, and I remember what you’d told me about Skygarden, and--” She shrugged. “It just fit.”

It did fit, and I tried not to think about how unsettled that made me. 

Beverley asked me after a moment, “So now what?”

“I’m still pissed off,” I told her.

“Like I can’t tell that,” Beverley said. 

I swallowed, and thought it over, and finally reached out across the table to take her soft hands in mine as I gathered what I needed to say.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go into the river with you,” I said to her, and Beverley tensed and tried to pull her hands away, but I just held on tighter. “No, listen, I know we’ve been over this, but I _am_ sorry. If I could’ve done it then, I would have, and the second I can go into that river without leaving the Folly a wreck behind me, I will.”

Beverley’s hands relaxed in mine, but she was still watching my face. 

I took a breath. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you should’ve told me what was going on with me the second you knew. By this point, you know what kind of information I need to know versus the stuff you can keep to yourself, and I know that you know that. This shit right here, I needed to know about, and you kept it from me, and I’m still pissed off about it.”

A corner of Beverley’s mouth quirks, rueful. “Look at you, Peter Grant, using your words and everything.”

I held firm. “Bev.”

“Yeah, I hear you. I do.” Beverley watched me for a moment longer before she said, “You’re freaking out about this, aren’t you?”

I didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yeah, it’s a shock.”

She frowned a little, and pressed, “But you would have followed me into the river.”

“Yeah, I would,” I said. “I just thought I had another decade or so to get used to the idea first.”

*

I left early the morning, well before Beverley was up to go to her own job. I could say it was to beat the London traffic--much as you ever can beat the traffic in this city--and it'd even be true. To a point.

Beverley stirred but didn’t fully wake as I was getting ready. I looped my tie around my neck and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “See you at home,” I murmured, and she let out a sigh in response, still more asleep than not. 

Traffic was hell, of course, but I made it into the Folly into reasonably good time, parking my car in my usual spot.

I hadn’t exactly meant to search Nightingale out straight away, but somehow I ended up in the lab where Nightingale was teaching the apprentices the forma for _scindere_. “Ah, Peter,” Nightingale said casually over his shoulder. “I’m attempting to teach Priya and Adam here how to keep from exploding things when they use this forma. Any suggestions for what to avoid?"

“I’ve always found that explosions can come in handy,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Thomas, can I have a word?” I’d meant for it to sound as neutral and non-alarming as possible, I really had, but something in my face, the tone of my voice, had Nightingale looking at me more sharply and saying to Priya and Adam, “Continue with that, and I’ll check in on your progress momentarily.”

Priya just nodded, too intent on her work to pay much attention, but Adam glanced curiously between us as we exited. 

“Is something the matter?” Nightingale asked as soon as the door closed behind us, but I shook my head. 

“Hang on a moment,” I said, and we went off to the magical library, which was deserted. Nightingale held his tongue until I’d locked the door behind us--no need to have anyone else walking in on this conversation, I figured. 

Nightingale had that crease between his eyebrows that told me he knew this wasn’t going to be a discussion about lesson plans, or wanting to change the agenda for our weekly meeting. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

The words came more easily than I’d expected them to. “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?” 

“That I wasn’t aging. That I haven’t been aging, not since Skygarden,” I said. I was watching his face as I said it, and saw the moment that it hit, the way his shoulders went back, his expression flashing in understanding. 

“Ah,” he said, softly, and I let out a long breath.

“So that’s a yes, then,” I said. “Were you ever planning on filling me in?” I didn’t do a great job of keeping the edge out of my voice, although to be fair, I wasn’t trying very hard.

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Peter,” Nightingale corrected me. “I just--had suspicions. A theory.”

“A theory that I’m always going to be twenty-five?” I asked. 

“It was just a theory, I didn’t--” Nightingale stopped, and then said, “Things are different than they were in my day. People don’t wear their age so obviously, and with you...it wasn’t something I could confirm, not for another decade at least.”

“But you still had an idea,” I said. “You and Bev, you had to have noticed something was going on. I look at old photographs of myself, back when I was still a PC and I--I haven’t changed, my face hasn’t changed at all.”

“Peter,” Nightingale said softly, and I shook my head. 

“Just--tell me why you didn’t say anything.”

“Because I wasn’t sure, Peter, not absolutely sure and I--” Nightingale caught himself, momentarily biting at his lip before admitting, “And I wanted so badly for it to be true that I didn’t trust my judgment on the matter.”

I fell silent on that, not sure what to say next.

“You’ll always be his favorite,” Abigail had grumbled to me once in the early days of her training, after Nightingale had chastised her for pushing too hard, too fast with her magic. “You’re the first one and you’ll always be the favorite.”

I’d dismissed it as nonsense--Nightingale had been far harder on me than he was on any our new recruits, and he’d never shown any preferential treatment back when Lesley and I had been apprentices together all those years ago. 

But in another, deeper way, it was true. I’d been the first apprentice, the first to enter the Folly after all that time, and there had been those years of it just being me and Nightingale, the two of us facing off against all those threats to London, to England--that had created a bond, something I couldn’t explain to anyone else, really, except for maybe Bev.

And I’d gone with Nightingale to the funerals of the last survivors of Ettersberg, of the old crowd. I saw the way he’d winced, just barely, when Dr. Walid started using his cane for good.

Was it that much of a surprise, then, that he’d dreaded the thought of me dying before him, of attending my funeral the way he’d attended so many?

“You still should’ve said something,” I told him, and Nightingale nodded. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “I likely should have, but Peter...I thought eventually you’d see it on your own. Surely you must have noticed.”

“Well, clearly I didn’t,” I said, waving my hand irritably, and Nightingale frowned a little at that. 

“I’ll admit, I’m a bit surprised at your reaction,” he said finally. “I understand your irritation with me, of course, but...you don’t seem pleased at the news.”

I didn’t deny it, but I didn’t say anything else either. My brain was too muddled for that, too jumbled between the things I couldn’t yet put into words, and the things I’d never say, not to Nightingale’s face at least.

So I shook my head. “Let’s just...leave it for now, all right?”

“Of course,” Nightingale said, but he was still watching me with that careful look. I ignored it and we left the library together, back to our apprentices and back to our jobs.

*

We didn’t have much on our plates that day--no immediate cases demanding our time, no disasters looming on the horizon, and so I made the executive decision to give myself the afternoon off. 

I didn’t go to the cinemas or anything like that, instead I got into my nice, solid, dependable VW and drove off to see my mum, like a good son should.

We tried to visit her every week, Bev and I. It wasn’t always possible, not with our jobs and the demands on our time, but more Sundays than not, we’d go over to the care home and visit my mother. 

She’d been diagnosed with dementia eighteen months ago, and at first I’d insisted on her living with us, along with a home care worker coming by to help out. It hadn’t--things had been bad, at that point, but I still hadn’t been able to stand the thought of sending my mother away to live with strangers. Cultural bias, and the memory of all my mum had done for my dad, while he was still alive--surely I could do the same, do better, with my comfortable salary and nice suburban house in Putney with its two spare rooms. Bev was more than willing, and I was convinced it would be fine.

It hadn’t been, and eventually I’d accepted the inevitable and found my mum a nice care home. She seemed to like it well enough, was more settled there and liked having more people around her, and I visited as much as I could. 

My mother still recognized me when I visited, still knew who I was more often than not, and I tried to be grateful for having that much, tried to let that ease the guilt and helplessness.

My mum was watching the telly in her room when I stopped by, football highlights on Sky. She looked over me and smiled, and I kissed her cheek as I murmured my hellos. 

Today was a good day to visit as it turned out. Mum wasn’t just calm, but also alert enough to ask after Beverley, to fuss over me and ask if I was eating enough.

“Course I am,” I promised. “Still miss your cooking, though.” 

She waved a hand, distractedly, her attention having been caught by the screen and a replay of the derby between Real Madrid and Barcelona. I didn’t mind it, I was used to her attention wandering by now, and I let myself sit there quietly with my mum, her dry, wrinkled hand cool in mine.

My mother wore her age well, but all those years of cleaning offices, of fussing and worrying about my dad, about me, still showed. You could see the years in her face, in her grey crop of hair, you could tell by her clouded gaze how little time she had left. 

I’d buried my dad over a decade ago, and I’d been preparing to say goodbye to him for years before that. It had stung--not much about my dad that didn’t, even now--but I’d been prepared for it. 

I wasn’t ready for this, not yet. I wasn’t yet ready to bury my mother, to stand by her grave in a black suit and know that I’d never speak to her again. And God knew I wasn’t ready to do it for everyone I knew, for Dr. Walid and Abigail and Sahra Guleed and everyone else, everyone in my life that wasn’t a river spirit or somehow made immortal through magical fallout. 

I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t _want_ that. 

But, like so much in life, I’d had it given to me anyway. 

“Good ball,” my mother murmured at one point, watching a replay of a goal. 

“Yeah,” I said, watching the players celebrate on the pitch. “It is.”

*

I got home that evening before Beverley, and started cooking dinner. I made a sort-of aloo gobi, and in tribute to my mother, had a heavy hand with the spices. Beverley came in right as I was finishing up, groaning as she settled in at the kitchen table. 

“Rough day at work?” I asked.

Beverley grunted her assent. “Confiscated drugs and a knife off of one of the kids,” she said, speaking about the youth shelter where she worked. 

“Same kid?” I asked, and at Beverley’s weary nod, winced. “Jesus.”

“No kidding,” Beverley said, then let out a different sort of sigh as I placed a plate in front of her. “Aren’t you a delight.”

“I’m a treasure, me,” I joked as I went and grabbed two bottles of Red Stripe out of the refrigerator. 

“Yeah, you are,” Beverley agreed, but in a different tone entirely. When I turned to look at her, she was already watching me, and she asked, “Are we going to talk about last night?”

I shrugged as I sat down across from her. “If you want, yeah.”

Beverley poked at her meal with her fork, but didn’t eat. “It bothers you,” she said at last. “Not just me staying quiet, but the whole concept. You’re not happy about it.”

There was no point in denying it, and I didn’t. “I’m not,” I admitted to her. 

“Why not?” Beverley asked. “I get you being upset that I didn’t say anything, but this--this is a good thing, Peter.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” I told her. “It just…” I bit my lip, considering, before I tried to explain. “I would’ve gone into that river for you. I’d have done it, because you’re my wife and I want to be married to you in every way that we can be married. But I wouldn’t have--if it were just me, it’s not something I’d have ever sought out. It’s not something I’d have gone looking for on my own.”

Beverley’s dark eyes were fixed on me, her full lips pressed tightly together, the way they did when she was holding herself back from saying something too soon.

I exhaled, and told her the rest of it. “And with this--this isn’t something I _chose_. It’s an accident, some freak event that happened to me. Like whatever happened with Nightingale, or with Simone Fitzwilliam and Varvara Tamonina. And I look at them, I look at Nightingale--and that’s not a life I’d pick. I don’t want to be a man out of his own time, watching everyone I know die until I’m alone with my memories of how things used to be.”

“You won’t be,” Beverley burst out. “I’m here too, in case you’d forgotten. Nightingale will still be around, the Folly will still be there. It’s not the same thing.”

“I know that,” I said, and I did. Mostly. “It’s just--something I’ll need to adjust to.”

Beverley nodded, accepting that, and paused before asking, “Would you believe me if I told you that everything was going to be all right?”

“I’d believe it coming from you,” I told her, and Beverley’s answering smile was easily the best thing I’d seen all day.

*

It wasn’t settled as simply as that, of course. We’d need to work out what would happen down the line, how much longer I had before I’d face the same kind of questions that Nightingale constantly got, from the Met, from others. And there was the issue of any potential children--which Bev and I both wanted badly, but had put on hold for the time being--and now we knew that if we _did_ have kids, we were certain to outlive them all. 

Like I said, a lot to work out.

But I meant what I’d said to Bev that night. I’d always believe that everything would turn out all right, if she was the one saying it to me.

*

We had Nightingale over for dinner a week later. I cooked, Beverley bought a chocolate tart from that bakery we liked down the road, and Nightingale came to our door with a bottle of wine from the Folly’s cellar. 

I hadn’t shaved over the weekend, and when I answered the door, Nightingale’s eyebrows went up at the sight of the stubble. “Peter,” he said. “Growing a beard, I see.”

I touched my face, a little self-consciously, feeling the hair prickle against my palm. “Yeah,” I said. “Beverley thinks it’ll age me up a bit. Give us a little more breathing room.”

Nightingale studied me for a moment longer, and then pronounced, “You’ll carry the beard well, I think.”

"He's definitely got the bone structure for it," Beverley agreed as she came in from the kitchen, taking the bottle from Nightingale’s hands and kissing him on the cheek. “Hello, Thomas.”

“Good evening, Beverley,” Nightingale said. He tilted his head a little, still looking at me, and then nodded decisively. “I agree, it’ll look good with his jawline,” he said to Beverley.

“Here,” I said, rolling my eyes a little as I reached out. “I’ll take your coat, and you two can keep on discussing my grooming decisions.”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Beverley said archly, and took Nightingale off to the kitchen, her arm linked in his.

I shook my head as I hung up Nightingale’s coat in our closet, but as I went over to join them in the kitchen, I was still smiling a little bit.


End file.
